by Jane Peart
There were wonderful talks, touching on all sorts of subjects. Talks that revealed just how much they had in common. One discovery she had made—that Sean liked poetry—came one day while pausing at Eden Cottage.
Inspired by the charming woodland scene, he had recited softly:
E'er I descend to the grave
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends and many books, both true,
Both wise and both delightful, too!
Looking at him in surprise, Bryanne had blurted out before she thought, "A horse trainer who quotes poetry!"
Manly as he was, Sean did not seem in the least embarrassed to admit it. "It's said that every Irishman has poetry in his soul." He smiled. "Don't you like poetry?"
"Yes, very much. That is, I like it so much better now that I'm not required to memorize it. . . like I did when I was in boarding school in England."
He chuckled empathically. "I know what you mean. I hated the confinement of a classroom, too. Had much rather be out ridin' my horse. I was Shakespeare's lad, I'm afraid. You know:
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
"However," he confessed with a grin, "I'd often take my book of Yeats in my saddlebag to read with my lunch on the moor."
"Irish poets only?"
"No, not exclusively. I like your Walt Whitman, his strong, vital verse. And, of course, Tennyson. What's not to like about Tennyson?"
Bryanne felt a little lift of her heart. "Oh, yes! The Idylls of the King . . . I didn't have to be forced to learn those lines!"
"Romantic poetry at his best," commented Sean, allowing his eyes to rest on Bryanne for a moment.
For a moment she found it hard to breathe, then directed his attention to Eden Cottage. "That's Aunt Kitty's house, you know."
"Yes. I've wondered why she doesn't live there."
"Maybe because she was so happy there with her husband, and when he died . . ."
"She seems happy enough now."
"Well, she's busy anyway. Working for Frank Maynard in the election. Everyone is."
"And what about you?" He studied the fresh face turned toward him.
"You're not interested in politics?"
"Not really, I'm afraid. I'm not old enough to vote."
"You're . . . ?"
"I'll be eighteen in August."
"Then you're the same age as my brother Michael," Sean said, taking a few steps toward the lovely little garden. "I didn't think it was possible, but I miss that fella . . . and the younger ones, too."
"So you miss your home . . . miss Ireland?" she asked, with a little prickle of apprehension.
"Oh, shure I do. But I like Virginia more and more. And this is a foine opportunity for a lad. It's not as if my dad were left in a lurch by not havin' me at home. Mike is more than capable of doin' what I did, and there's two more after him, ready to step into our shoes."
Bryanne's throat felt tight. Why was Sean telling her all this? Then she remembered what he had said about his contract. Was he trying to tell her that he was anxious to return to Ireland, to his family? What if there were some Irish colleen waiting for him?
As if reading her thought, Sean said, "I'm planning to go home for a few weeks at the end of summer, visit my folks, and then if Mr. Cameron wants be back, well, then, I'll come."
Bryanne tried to think of something to say to assure him that Scott was certain to want him back, but before she could say anything, Sean asked, "And will you be going back to England yourself?"
"It's been decided I'm to attend a school here next fall and—"
"It's been decided, has it?" He didn't let her finish but gazed at her with a hint of a smile. "You don't decide for yourself then?" He raised his eyebrows. "I thought American girls made up their own minds."
There didn't seem to be anything to say to that.
"I was only teasing," he said as if he realized he had discomfited her. "My black Irish humor. Growing up as I did in a big family, we're all great for giving each other a hard time. Don't pay me any mind." He smiled, and there was something in the smile and in Sean's eyes that made Bryanne feel foolishly happy. You only teased someone you liked or apologized to someone you cared about if you felt you might have hurt their feelings.
"It's all right. I understand."
Sean turned to look at Eden Cottage again. "Now, if I had a small home of my own like this one, I'd be more than content to stay."
"It is a sweet little house. I've become fond of it too."
After a moment, Sean said softly in that voice with its lilt she found so endearing, "You know, there's more to that poem I quoted, another verse besides. It goes:
And since Love ne'er will from me flee,
A Mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian-angels are,
Only beloved and loving me.
That's what makes life truly fine. A man and a woman who love one another and are happy together in their home. That's the way my parents are. I wish you knew them."
"I do too," Bryanne said in a whisper.
"Someday you will," Sean said quietly. Without another word they walked back to where their horses were tethered, and Sean helped her up into her saddle, and they rode back toward Cameron Hall. After that afternoon at Eden Cottage, their relationship underwent a subtle change. Without anything being arranged, Sean had Bryanne's horse saddled and ready, and they rode together every day. For Bryanne the feeling growing between them was too precious to examine, too new to explore too closely for fear it would vanish. She had never expected anything like Sean to happen to her.
Sean had so much that she didn't have, that she envied: a real family, a home he loved, brothers and sisters he was close to, a direction to his life, goals he wanted to achieve. He was strong, manly, yet sensitive. He had cared enough to share some with her. Things she was sure he didn't share with others. That must mean he trusted her. Was it possible Sean loved her?
Bryanne did not have long to wonder. Only a week after that day in the woods, they met in the ornate Victorian gazebo at the end of the garden between the house and the stables, and Sean told her so. She had cried, and he had laughingly dried her tears. "That was supposed to make you happy!" he had teased.
"It does, it did, I am" she protested through her tears, and they had kissed. For the first time in her life Bryanne felt she was loved, accepted, and understood in a way no one else had ever done.
Cherishing her secret, Bryanne could not help think what the family would say if they knew. How would the grandmothers accept it? She was sure Grandmother Blythe would be pleased. But Grandmother Devlin? Bryanne felt a bit guilty admitting that Garnet was somewhat of a snob. There were the "right" people, as far as she was concerned, and they were mostly Virginians! and then there were "others." Bryanne wasn't sure in what category Grandmother Devlin might place Sean.
What if Sean asked her to marry? Would they live in Ireland?
Her head whirled with all the possibilities.
Unknown to Bryanne, her rendezvous with Sean had been observed. Jillian had been in the library at the French windows enjoying its view of velvety green lawns, clipped boxwood hedges, sweeping down to the garden centered by the gazebo. Actually, she had been romantically daydreaming, thinking what a perfect place the latticed gazebo, with its trailing wisteria vines providing privacy, would be for a lovers' tryst.
Then as she stood there she saw two figures emerge, Bryanne and Sean McShane. Deep in conversation, they stopped for a moment. Then Sean leaned down and kissed Bryanne's cheek, and hand-in-hand they strolled toward the stables. Jillian drew in a startled breath.
She could only imagine what Mrs. Devlin would say if she suspected anything like this was going on. She would probably blame Jillian for not being aware of it and not nipping such an "unsuitable" romance in the bud.
Of course, Mrs. Devlin ha
d been preoccupied with other things since her return to Mayfield, mainly the plight of her grandson Gareth. But if she knew about this . . . Just then the sound of the door opening made her turn. Scott was standing at the entrance to the library. Smiling, he asked, "Am I disturbing you?"
"Not at all," she replied quickly, hoping her inner confusion was not evident.
"I've been wanting to talk to you," Scott said, coming in and closing the door. "But there's been so much else going on—"
Jillian stiffened. Here it comes, she thought, unconsciously bracing herself for the inevitable message she had been more or less expecting. Since Bryanne will be going away to school in the fall, your services will no longer be needed.
Scott's first words were almost verbatim what she had anticipated. "I'm sure you're aware that my mother and Aunt Garnet have been discussing Bryanne's future. As her companion these past years, whatever is eventually decided will affect you."
"Yes, of course, I understand that." Jillian willed her voice not to shake.
"We all feel you have done a marvelous job, provided her with the affection and companionship she needed." He paused. "But you've become so much more than that. Certainly to Bryanne and—to all of us—the whole family."
"That's very kind of you to say."
"Not kind at all, just true." Scott cleared his throat, then asked, "Have you been happy here in Virginia?"
"Oh, yes, quite, in fact, very happy," she replied.
"Would you consider staying on then? I mean, even if Bryanne goes away?"
"I don't think I know what you mean. . . . " Scott was looking at her in a way she found curious and a little unsettling.
"Or maybe I'm assuming too much. Maybe you've already made plans, perhaps you're anxious to go back to England?" His voice held some other unspoken question. But Jillian was uncertain what it was or what she should answer. She didn't want him to feel sorry for her. Or to think that any decisions about Bryanne would leave her adrift, without plans.
"Oh, no, it's not that," she said.
"I wouldn't want to pressure you or anything. But I wanted to—had to—find out how you felt about it all—I mean, America, about Virginia, actually, about us"
Scott, usually so articulate, confident, was floundering suddenly, and it surprised Jillian. There was something in the way he was looking at her that made her heart rush foolishly. Then he moved toward her, holding out both hands. For one crazy moment she thought he might take her in his arms. But just then the sound of raised voices coming from the hall reached them. Scott lifted his head, turned to listen. He frowned.
"Uh-oh, Mama and Aunt Garnet."
Garnet's voice, cold with anger, could be clearly heard.
"Well, Blythe, you're running away again, I understand. That seems to be a habit of yours when you can't cope with things. Your son seems to have inherited the same trait. Never mind what chaos is left behind or who gets hurt."
"That's not fair, Garnet." Blythe's tone was grieved, then rose defensively. "Jeffs art, his work, is his priority—it has been for years."
"As my daughter discovered to her sorrow—"
"You know that's not true, Garnet. Faith loved Jeff. They were very, very happy. I'm sure Faith never regretted her marriage."
"You don't think that your running off to England is exactly the same as Jeffs going to New Mexico?" Garnet accused. "I see no difference. I think you both are shirking your responsibilities here." Her voice turned sarcastic. "I suppose while you're away, the rest of us are supposed to do your duty for you both."
"Garnet! Gareth, Lynette, and even Bryanne are no longer children. They don't need grandmothers hovering over them! Besides both Jillian and Kitty will be here, and Scott."
"Scott! A bachelor! What does he know about keeping an eye on impulsive young people!" Garnet's tone implied her disdain for Scott's abilities to manage things.
Scott's eyebrows shot up. He glanced at Jillian, saying, "I better go out there and see if I can negotiate a truce." He walked purposefully to the door, with his hand on the knob, turned and gave her a conspiratorial wink, then went out into the hall.
There he found his mother looking distraught. Garnet's luggage was piled high at the front door. At the sight of Scott, Garnet announced: "I'm moving over to Avalon, Scott. Someone has to take care of Gareth." She threw Blythe an indignant look.
"If that's what you feel you should do, Aunt Garnet," Scott said calmly. "I'll be glad to take you over there myself."
Garnet looked a little startled to have her ultimatum accepted so readily.
chapter
24
Avalon
Spring 1926
SURROUNDED BY MOUNTAINS of monogrammed luggage, Garnet looked about her with dismay and gave a small involuntary shiver. She had never understood why her daughter had been so enamored of this house, brought stone by stone from England and reconstructed on this isolated island in Virginia.
After their elopement Faith had moved here with Jeff. Grudgingly, Garnet had to admit that the place did have a certain austere beauty. The exterior, built of timber and plaster, was typical of the best of the Tudor period, with its beautifully carved oriel windows and richly ornamented gables over leaded casements. The original was the Dower House belonging to an aristocratic English family whose line could be traced back to the royal Plantagenets.
Probably Faith, poor darling, had tried to share her husband's enthusiasm for the place. Jeff, the son of the late Malcolm Montrose and her old nemesis, Blythe Cameron, had grown up here with his widowed mother before her marriage to Garnet's brother Rod. Thinking now of her sister-in-law, Garnet's lips thinned.
Well, she wouldn't waste a minute worrying about their latest little altercation. There was too much to be done here. She must set things straight, get Gareth organized.
Gareth. She turned her attention to the young man standing opposite her, at the moment looking rather bewildered. He was tall and thin, his weight having not quite caught up to his height. His dark hair was shaggy, needing a good trim. He was wearing stained corduroys, a worn jacket, heavy boots. But for all his indifference to appearance, there was something extraordinarily disarming about him. Something that reminded Garnet of Jonathan. Jonathan—whom she loved like a son, the son she had never had, Malcolm and Rose's son, the son she might have had with Malcolm . . . if things had been different. . . .
Sharply Garnet pulled her thoughts from the never-to-be-recaptured past. Gareth was waiting for an answer. "Where do you want me to take your bags, Grandmother?"
Her heart melted. What a dear boy he was! There would be plenty of time later to deal with his careless dress. Right now, it was important to establish a rapport with him, show him that she was here to stay and take charge. "I suppose there's a guest room?"
Gareth's brow furrowed. "I don't think so. Father never had overnight guests, and he hasn't entertained at all since Mother . . . "
Garnet checked her comments on the lack of accommodations and the necessity of always being prepared for unexpected visits. Why, at Cameron Hall or even Montclair, for that matter, visitors were expected to stay anywhere from a fortnight to a month at a time. In the olden days, when travel was more difficult, some guests stayed for up to a year!
She sighed. "Well, ring for the maid. I'll need her to put fresh linens on the bed in whatever room is available and to air it out thoroughly for now. I'll make my own selection when I have a chance to look through the house."
"But, Grandmother," Gareth said, "I don't think you understand. There is no maid. Father dismissed the staff before he left for New Mexico."
Garnet stared at her grandson in utter disbelief. "I don't believe it! How could he have been so irresponsible? What on earth did he expect you to do?"
"Fend for myself, I suppose. What I've always done, Grandmother . . . at least, for the last couple of years."
"Fend for yourself?" she repeated, still in a state of shock. "A young man on his own? Whatever could your father be th
inking?" Unconsciously, she began to pace, her mind whirling. "Well, we shall have to do something about this at once. But until then . . ." She paused and faced Gareth, saying briskly, "First things first. I'm starved. I left Cameron Hall before dinner. And since there's no cook, I suppose we must find something to eat. Where's the kitchen?"
The rest of the house might be medieval in feel, but the kitchen had been completely renovated and modernized before Faith left on her ill-fated journey to England in the spring of 1912. It was well-lighted, well-equipped, with plenty of counters, a coal stove, and a large icebox. Garnet removed her hat and gloves and, finding a large chef's apron hanging on a hook, tied it over her fashionable ensemble and began opening cabinets and inspecting the shelves.
Gareth stood, almost at attention, as if awaiting orders. As Garnet alternately hummed and talked to herself, he shifted from one foot to the other.
Finally he suggested, "There are plenty of vegetables, Grandmother. I put in a large garden in the spring, and we can have almost anything you want for a salad or stew, or whatever you'd like."
Garnet, who had not been in a kitchen or used a stove or stirred a pudding in more than thirty years, halted in her search and surveyed her grandson with new interest. "That was very enterprising of you, Gareth. I'm glad to see you don't wander around with your head in the clouds . . . like your artist father." Hands on hips, she regarded him for a moment, considering. "You've eggs, too, I imagine. Yes, well, good. We'll have an omelet and a nice salad. That will do for this evening. Tomorrow's another thing entirely. I may have to see about hiring some help."
Thus passed Garnet's first evening at Avalon, a not altogether unpleasant experience for either of them.
The next morning when she came down to the kitchen, Garnet found the coffee already brewed. Gareth poured her a cup and greeted her cheerfully.
